


Become What You Hate

by romanticalgirl



Series: Monthly Challenge Fics [3]
Category: Bandom, Generation Kill
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the guys in Generation Kill were a rock band?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Become What You Hate

It’s not like Brad doesn’t have better things to do. He can name about a dozen off the top of his head. But Ray called him and said he needed him, and if there’s one code that Brad lives by, it’s that you go when your friends call, even if they call for stupid as shit reasons.

He shuts his bike down outside Ray’s house, and he can hear the caterwauling even with the garage door shut. He braces himself and opens it and gets a face full of Ray shouting into a microphone. Brad closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Ray didn’t need saving in military school – he fought like he was fighting to survive, and in a way he was – but Brad stood behind him, adding a little extra force to the reputation Ray earned. And in a way, Ray saved Brad’s ass by forcing him to look outside his own world of order and discipline and electronics and broaden his focus. 

He also taught Brad to play the bass, which is why Brad is here. Now. Regretting every single one of the life choices that have led him to this. “You sound like shit.”

“Brad!” Ray drops the mike, which leads to a high pitched squeal of feedback. Brad’s too busy bracing himself for Ray’s full body hug, his legs wrapped around Brad to react. “You came.” 

“Get off me, you freak of nature.” Brad shoves Ray off, and Ray lands on his feet like a fucking cat. Brad looks at the rest of the band – for lack of a better word. Trombley on drums and looking as fucking insane as ever. Walt on keyboards and Poke on guitar. “This is the shittiest excuse for a band I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah, which is why you brought your bass, dog.” Poke’s voice is as dry as ever. “Tryin’ to hone in on the sweet pussy we’re going to get.”

“Chicks dig guys in bands,” Trombley agrees. 

“Chicks are never going to dig you, Trombley. You’re one crazy ass motherfucker and they smell that shit a mile away.” Ray bumps against Brad. 

“How do you explain how you get laid then, Ray?” Brad sets his guitar case down and unpacks his bass. It’s as pristine as everything else Brad owns, not to mention custom modified. “We’re not playing the shit you sent me.”

“We have to!” Ray picks up the mike and adjusts it, another screech of feedback echoing through the garage. “Those are the only songs we know. And Lilley’s coming over to shoot a video for ‘Hot Chicks in Heat’ tomorrow. It’s going to be fucking awesome.”

“I hate you,” Brad sighs. 

“We’ve got a show tonight too, so get tuned up. There’s going to be a local music reporter there, and you get to meet Nate.”

“Who’s Nate?” 

“He’s the sap Ray here roped into being a tour manager.” Poke strums out a chord that seems out of place for the music Ray’s insisting that they play. “Only thing I can figure is the dude owes someone big.”

Trombley snorts. “Or Ray caught him fucking his mama.”

“Ray’s mom only fucks deadbeats and wanna-be race car drivers.” Brad sighs and shakes his head. “And even they’re smart enough not to get roped into this shit.”

“You saying you’re not smart?” Poke raises an eyebrow and smirks at Brad.

Brad looks at him, his expression blank as a sheet of ice. “Not saying that. Just saying I’m loyal.” Brad flicks his eyes toward Ray and then rolls them and Poke smiles. “To a fault, obviously.”

**

The audience mostly consists of Ray’s relatives and ex-girlfriends, which Brad suspects might be one and the same. Brad picks out the reporter immediately because he looks like he belongs at a Journey concert. Which Brad would be happy to join him at. Lilley’s obviously the one with the video camera, his art school aesthetic screaming hipster. 

Ray thrashes around the stage like he’s high on energy drinks and pop rocks, and Trombley looks like he’s having an epileptic seizure as he plays. Walt blends in just like always and Poke has most of the girls screaming in pure lust. He’s definitely getting action in the bathroom stall tonight. Brad shudders at the thought – of the bathroom, not of Poke getting laid – and keeps surveying the room. Playing takes zero concentration, and he hangs at the back of the stage, blending in like Walt. As much as he can given that he towers over everyone else.

His eye catches movement at the side of the stage, and he glances over. There’s someone standing in the shadows, and from what Brad can tell, he’s completely out of place. He’s wearing fucking khakis. He looks like Wall Street in the middle of Hee Haw. They finish the set and Ray jumps out into the crowd, surfing his way back to the bar. Brad just closes his eyes and shakes his head and starts packing up his gear. 

“You guys are actually awful.” 

Brad turns his head and looks up at Khakis. “Hell, I wouldn’t have even had to show up to know that.”

Khakis squats down and starts coiling wire. “Sometimes you make commitments you regret.” He packs the coiled wire into the road case and starts on another. “You must be Brad, the most amazing bass player in the universe.”

“Brad, the only one stupid enough to let Ray guilt him into shit shows like this.”

“Nate. Nate, regretting he ever thought he should go into managing bands.”

“Shit. You’re Nate. You’re not at all what I expected.” Brad’s eyebrows go up and he looks Nate over more seriously. “And what the fuck did you do to end up managing Ray? Fuck, how do you even _know_ Ray?”

“Regrettable life decisions.”

Brad nods. “That I understand. Can I buy you a beer?”

Nate looks at the crowd of people at the bar, most of them already drunk. Ray’s up on someone’s shoulders, listing seriously to the right as he does shots straight from the bottle of tequila. “Only if it’s somewhere else.”

**

The bar down the street isn’t any quieter, but it doesn’t have NASCAR on the TV and no one knows who they are. Brad buys the first round and Nate buys the second, and they trade off until Brad’s closer to drunk than buzzed. Nate keeps sucking his lower lip into his mouth between his teeth, and Brad keeps staring at the movement every time Nate does it. It’s distracting, especially when he slides his tongue over his lip afterward.

He tries to concentrate on something else, finishing off the dregs of his current beer. They’ve covered every topic other than how they got roped into Ray’s newest adventure, and Brad figures it’s time to find out. “So. What are you in for?”

Nate blinks, and fuck if he doesn’t have distracting eyelashes. “You sure you want to know?”

“I’m all ears.”

Nate’s gaze takes Brad in and Brad can feel his cock stiffening. Shit. “Not quite.” Nate takes a hit off his own beer and leans back. He tilts his head back and looks up at the glowing neon over the bar, the colors painting his skin. Brad gets caught by the low blue light across his throat. “I lost a bet.”

“I could have guessed that. Details.”

Nate laughs and looks at Brad again. “I work with this guy, Rudy. He was supposed to manage Ray’s band and I had this pop punk group I was looking at. They were good. Are good. Fucking amazing.”

“Must have been some bet.”

“Rudy bet me bands. He said that there was no way I could beat the lead singer in a drinking contest. I said I could. We made a bet. Winner got the pop punk band. Now, if I’d know that Rudy was friends with the guy’s brother, I would have known it was a sucker’s bet. Now Rudy manages Midtown, and I have the joy and honor of managing Dicksmack and the Douchebags. Present company excepted.”

“Pretty sure Ray’s changed his mind about the name of the band. Wouldn’t fit on the t-shirt.” Brad signals for another round of beers and two shots of tequila. He holds out the shot glass to Nate. 

“I don’t make drinking bets anymore,” Nate laughs and taps his glass against Brad’s. “But I’ll drink to that.”


End file.
